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by speakslow



Category: IT (1990), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Cuddling, Domestic, M/M, Perfect Strangers references, Richie's cat is named after Lloyd Dobler, Sick Character, Sick Richie Tozier, Tumblr Prompt, because why not, references to therapies used to treat ptsd, set an indeterminate amount of time post chapter 2, this is probably the only thing i will write that is vaguely a fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-31 07:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21118511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakslow/pseuds/speakslow
Summary: For the first time in a while, Eddie knows exactly where he is.





	home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stellarbisexual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarbisexual/gifts).

> i was batsignaled by sickie @stellarbisexual to write this fic 🤧🤒 i hope you feel better soon (and maybe by the time i post this you might feel better enough that you don’t need it anymore so i’m sorry lol)
> 
> anyway, this started as a total idfic prompt for me but it turned into a post-chapter two canon divergent thing because this is how i be
> 
> *

“Do you have to be so loud, Eds? Show some respect. People are dying,” says the human burrito. He is swaddled on the couch and propped up on a ridiculous pile of pillows. 

_“People_ are dramatic,” Eddie says from his seat on the living room floor. He doesn’t think that what he’s doing is particularly loud. 

After waiting all week for a free moment, he’s spending his Sunday afternoon surrounded by the mahogany rectangles and piles of little metal dowels that make up the shelf he got from Wayfair. He’s sick of living out of boxes. Richie’s just sick. 

“You have a cold, Rich. Nobody’s ever died from a cold.”

“Says you.” Without his glasses on, all he can do is aim an extra-squinty glare in Eddie’s general direction. His nose is chapped raw and he’s miserably stuffy despite mainlining Sudafed and Mucinex for three days. Either the medicine is losing its effectiveness through overuse or he’s just a whiner.

Eddie thinks it’s the latter. “Says documented history.”

“Right, ‘cause you know everything about the history of everything.”

“I know what I’ve read on the Internet. No one has ever died from the common cold. Someone with a compromised immune system might be put at risk because of a cold, but the actual—”

Richie cuts him off with a croaky groan and burrows deeper into his cocoon. “Now I’m gonna die of boredom.”

“Perfect, then we’ll both get some peace and quiet.” He changes his voice to do a really bad impression from a TV show they watched as kids, more for Richie’s benefit than his own: “And we will do the Dance of Joy,” but Sick Richie is Crabby Richie so it backfires.

“Don’t act like you like Balki Bartokomous all of a sudden. You hated that show!”

“Wait, you remember his whole name? What a nerd.”

“He can write a dissertation on the measles and he calls me a nerd, Lloyd,” Richie calls out. He's talking to the cat, who is currently MIA. The strain on his voice makes him break into a wheezy coughing fit.

Eddie sighs. They can go back and forth like this all day. They _used to_ go back and forth like this alldayeveryday, once upon a time. Sometimes it’s fun. Other times, like now, it makes his eye start twitching.

He reaches for the hex key. Rolls it between two fingers. Pays attention to the way the treads want to park naturally into the valley behind his knuckle. He’s doing exactly what his therapist tells him to do when he feels himself starting to get overwhelmed.

“_Find something solid to anchor you to the present. Breathe. Notice five things around you.”_

Eddie takes a deep breath. Starts noticing,

1) Pieces of wood are scattered all over the living room. 2) Oh, and the cat is in the room with them, too. He’s sleeping on top of the PS4. 3) The pressure cooker is hissing from the kitchen, sending lemongrass steam into the air. 4) It’s warm enough in the house that Eddie is comfortable in a t-shirt, 5) but Richie is so cold that he’s bundled up like the kid from A Christmas Story. He’s paler than normal and has bags under his eyes. He doesn’t need to bicker all afternoon about nonsense. He needs some rest.

“Rich, I can keep the volume down for you,” Eddie says. “Alright?” He pushes himself up to sit on his knees. “Close your eyes and try to sleep.”

“Oh,” Richie says. He clearly wasn’t expecting to hear that. His eyebrows knit together and then soften. They do it a second time. It’s possible that Eddie has just broken his brain. “Uh, sure. Thanks.” He nestles a bit and turns on his side.

Eddie goes back to what he was doing. He pushes little bolt locks into notches on slabs of wood, balances them perpendicular without clunking them together, then uses a flathead to tighten them up. He only gets two sections done before glancing up to check if Richie is sleeping.

He’s not. His eyes are open and he’s just staring past the coffee table (maybe he’s staring at Eddie, but Eddie doesn’t think he can see that far) with a weird expression on his face. It’s preposterous, but he looks like he’s lost in the woods lying there on his own couch. 

Between the two of them, Eddie is the one who should feel lost here. Anyone who leaves their wife, uproots their entire life and flees like the house is burning has a right to feel lost. But earlier that morning, when he had woken up with Richie latched to his chest like a barnacle, he didn’t have to stop and think about where he was for the first time in weeks, because he knew. He knows where he is.

_Home. _

Eddie sets his work down. He stands up and walks over to the space between the couch and the coffee table. Hovers there above Richie, who’s still staring at the same spot. Waits.

“I just wanted you to come lay with me,” he says after a moment. He’s losing his voice. It will probably be gone tomorrow.

Eddie wants to make a joke about the world not knowing how lucky it is. He saves it for a rainy day. Instead he lays a hand on Richie’s shoulder. “Here, scootch forward.” He climbs onto the couch, slotting himself behind Richie and wrapping an arm around him as best he can. It’s hard to hug an overstuffed burrito.

For a few minutes everything is quiet. The pressure cooker is still seeping steam. It’s a pot of spicy Thai soup that Eddie hopes will alleviate the burrito’s congestion.

The burrito clears his throat. “Eds, you didn’t have to stop what you were doing.”

“I know.”

“And I’m kind of shitty at relationships.”

“I know.”

He laughs. Starts coughing again.

When he recovers, Eddie hugs him tighter. “You could have asked me to come cuddle you.” 

“No I couldn’t. You were all determined to put that thing together before the weekend is over. I’m not gonna be the guy that goes: ‘No, please, don’t do anything productive today. I need you to be my weighted blanket 'cause I'm a toddler when I'm sick .’ ”

“Yes, you can.” He lets go and guides Richie to turn around and face him. “If you need something from me, you can ask for it. I’m telling you, okay? You can.”

Richie’s eyes go soft and he smiles. “I need to borrow seven thousand dollars.”

Eddie shoves him in the gut and they both laugh. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do.”

He brushes a kiss on Richie’s forehead. Gets him to turn back around and unfurls the blanket so they can spoon properly. They spend the rest of the day this way in increments, stopping a few times to have lunch and feed Lloyd and dose Richie up with more medicine and squabble briefly over what to watch on TV. But they always return to the couch with Eddie as the big spoon.

At dusk, Eddie is dozing. He is shaken and pulled forward twice, and it takes him a minute to realize why. “Bless you, Rich,” he mumbles.

“Sorry, Eds.” Sniffles and regret are laced in his voice. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He tugs Richie closer to him. “S’okay.” His cheekbone pushes into the back of Richie’s clammy neck. “Y’want me to make you tea or something?”

“No thanks, baby. Go back to sleep.”

The living room is going to be littered with pieces of shelf for a couple more days. Nobody minds.


End file.
